Wild Oats (32 page)

At the front door of her little terraced house, she put the key in the lock, turned to him and smiled.

‘Coffee? Brandy?’

Christopher shook his head.

‘I’d better get home. I think I’ll walk back to the market place and get a cab. Clear my head.’

‘Sure you don’t want to come inside and wait?’

Of course he did. It was what he wanted more than anything – to step over her threshold, enter her world. He hesitated. But it was too late.

‘Actually, you’re probably right,’ Tiona was saying. ‘We’d better call it a night. We’ve got a hectic day at the office tomorrow, after all. Last thing you want is another brandy sloshing about on top of all that lovely food.’

Her tone was brisk, almost businesslike. Any hint of invitation Christopher thought he’d heard in her voice a moment ago had vanished. Thank God he hadn’t gone and made a fool of himself. He turned to go.

‘Wait!’

She went to take off his jumper. As she pulled it up over her head, he couldn’t take his eyes off her breasts underneath the lilac fabric. She folded the jumper neatly, handing it back to him.

‘Thank you so much for a lovely evening.’

Her voice was soft, delicious, like a caress. She leaned in to give him a kiss goodnight. Her lips brushed his lightly, so lightly he couldn’t be sure if they had in fact made contact. And as he drew back, she put a finger on his cheek, giving it the gentlest stroke, before disappearing inside and shutting the door. It was such a fleeting gesture that he couldn’t be sure of its meaning. But all the way home in the taxi, he relived the moment. Had it been affection? Appreciation? Or an invitation? He really couldn’t be
sure. He lifted up his sweater and held it to his nose. Her scent still clung to it, making his stomach clench with desire and giving him a sudden schoolboy urge…

20

By five o’clock on Saturday afternoon, Jamie thought that everything that needed to be done had been done. The garden looked stunning – the box hedges had been clipped and the honeysuckle and clematis and roses were cooperating by showing off their best blooms. All the food had been prepared and was lying under tea towels on the cold slab in the larder or in the fridge. Using the rose-covered pergola on the back lawn as a base, and two gazebos she’d begged off the village fête committee, she’d used the flood-damaged bedspreads to construct a sort of Bedouin tent effect. Inside, she covered trestle tables with white tablecloths and scattered them with rose petals on which to lay out the food when the time came. She’d strung dozens of tiny tin lanterns with tea lights on a washing line. Hay bales covered in yet more bedspreads and Ali Baba cushions and gaily striped durries provided seating. She sent Jack down to the gate at the end of the drive to tie on a bunch of gold balloons, for the few guests who hadn’t been to Bucklebury before.

Olivier had mowed the lawns, and the air was heavy with the delicious scent of freshly cut grass. The sound system had been placed by the French windows, with the speakers perched on the patio, and Jamie had gone
through their entire record, tape and CD collection compiling a suitable selection of music: cool atmospheric jazz to kick off the proceedings, then something more up tempo and up to date for dancing.

As she wandered barefoot back into the kitchen, she felt satisfied with her preparations. There was nothing she’d forgotten – she’d even got up early to listen to
Farming Today
and get the forecast. Tonight was going to be warm and dry; there was no threat of rain.

She was amused to find Olivier in the kitchen doing battle with the ironing board, running the ancient old iron that rarely saw the light of day over a pale blue linen shirt.

‘I’m impressed,’ she grinned.

‘My mother trained us all rigorously in the art of ironing. You know what the French are like when it comes to looking well turned out.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in anything but jeans.’

‘I can do understated chic.’ He indicated a pair of cream chinos that had already undergone his attentions. A pair of conker-brown loafers was on the floor, polished and gleaming.

‘You haven’t forgotten you’re in charge of the barbecue.’ Jamie didn’t like the thought of his pristine outfit covered in marinade.

Olivier held up a white chef’s apron. ‘I borrowed this from Toby at the Royal Oak.’

Jamie was touched. Olivier had made so much
effort. He’d been running round doing all the last-minute errands for her; nothing was too much trouble. He’d borrowed extra chairs from the village hall, gone into Ludlow for mineral water and mixers, and brought back an enormous bunch of orange lilies mixed with exotic greenery as a centrepiece for the drinks table.

She realized she’d kept him somewhat at arm’s length during his stay, but looking back at it now he’d been incredibly supportive. She supposed she’d been suspicious of his motives at first, wondering why he was so keen to hang around Jack. Was he just a freeloader, taking advantage of her father’s generosity in order to pursue his own quest for glory? She knew now that wasn’t the case, that Olivier and Jack were a partnership, that Olivier more than pulled his weight in his own way. He was a good friend, and she hadn’t really acknowledged it, with all that had happened.

‘Anything you want ironing, while I’m at it?’

Olivier was looking at her questioningly, holding the iron aloft. He cut a comical figure, the picture of masculinity behind an ironing board, a domestic god whose sexuality couldn’t be questioned, even for a second. The perfect husband for someone, mused Jamie. Surely that was what every girl wanted…

‘Well?’

His question brought her back to the matter in hand with a jolt of alarm, as she realized she hadn’t given a thought to tonight’s outfit. The first visitors
were going to start arriving in less than two hours and she hadn’t even had a bath.

‘Shit! I’d better go and sort out what I’m going to wear. I haven’t had a chance to think about it…’

She fled the kitchen in a panic. She’d meant to go out and buy something new, but what with all the preparations, she hadn’t had time. She knew she didn’t have anything suitable in her own wardrobe. She wanted something slightly glamorous but not too dressy. Something feminine, sexy and colourful, but practical if she was going to be rushing round hostessing. She thought about ringing Zoe and asking if she could borrow something, but then remembered that Kif had phoned to tell her Zoe had a prior engagement in London and wouldn’t be coming.

There was nothing for it but to raid her mother’s wardrobe.

Christopher had had a bitch of a day. Some days estate agency could be very satisfying: putting the perfect deal in place, helping people realize their dreams. But often it was a nightmare, especially when people’s dreams were jeopardized, when a chain broke, or a smug solicitor discovered some hideous glitch on the deeds and pushed the panic button. Or when people pulled out at the very last minute without a word of apology or explanation. That’s when the estate agent, as the middle man, got it in the neck, and had to call on every last drop of diplomacy to soothe ruffled feathers. Three deals had gone sour
today, and Christopher had felt as if he was treading water as he desperately tried to salvage them and calm hysterical vendors who saw the house of their dreams slipping through their fingers. And of course, being the weekend, there was a lot he couldn’t do, as solicitors weren’t working and banks didn’t answer the telephone. At the same time, the world and his wife wanted to view: nosing round other people’s properties when you had no intention whatsoever of putting in an offer seemed to be a national pastime.

Tiona had been a trouper, as ever, pouring oil on troubled waters, her gentle voice calming the most irate of clients. Norma got very stressed and ratty if asked to do more than one thing at once. Christopher wondered if Tiona was right, and perhaps it was time she went. Then he chastised himself for being intolerant. He hadn’t had a hangover as such, but the rich food and wine of the night before, followed by a rather sleepless night, made him feel as if he was wading through treacle. The backs of his eyelids felt like sandpaper, the bottom of his mouth like the proverbial parrot cage, and he was slightly light-headed.

He hadn’t had a moment to swap notes with Tiona about the evening, which was probably a good thing, as he wouldn’t have had a clue what to say. But just as she was leaving, she stopped by his desk to thank him for a lovely dinner.

‘It was great, wasn’t it?’ replied Christopher, a trifle non-committally.

‘Yes. It’s spoilt me rather. My pizza will seem dreadfully dull after all that wonderful food.’

Christopher wasn’t sure if she was dropping a hint or not.

‘I’m going to a party, I’m afraid. Otherwise I’d say pop round for supper with me and the boys.’ There. That sounded friendly and open but not too incriminating.

‘That’s very sweet. But I could probably do with an early night.’

Christopher wondered, for one wild moment, if Jamie would mind if he brought Tiona to the party. It wouldn’t be that extraordinary a request. And he knew the Wildings. The more the merrier. Then he realized it was a crazy, dangerous idea, because he knew his reasons for it were less than innocent.

Tiona leaned down to pick up her handbag. She obviously had no idea, Christopher thought, that from a certain angle you could see right down her front in that cardigan. The river pearls were there again, slithering back into their place between her cleavage as she stood up. He gulped. Tiona waved her fingers in farewell.

‘Have a lovely party. Think of me curled up on the sofa in my jimjams.’

And off she went. Christopher groaned inwardly. The image of Tiona in her jimjams was going to haunt him all bloody evening.

*

No one had ever cleared out Louisa’s dressing room. It wasn’t that it was a shrine. Jamie simply hadn’t had time before she had flown off on her travels to address the problem, and Jack had found it too painful to face. Everything was still hanging there. Rows and rows of couture frocks and jackets and coats and trouser suits. It was only now that Jamie really appreciated how exquisite they all were. Balenciaga, St Laurent, Dior – feminine and unfussy. And on the floor of the cupboard, boxes and boxes of shoes, many with matching handbags.

Louisa had never come across as a label freak – not like Olivier’s mother – and ninety per cent of the time she’d been in jeans or jodhpurs. But there was no denying that when she did dress up, she had a presence and an elegance that was inimitable – the class and style of Jackie O, Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly rolled into one, with a little bit of Bloomsbury bohemian thrown in. It was her tiny frame, her flawless complexion and her colouring that stopped men in their tracks and made women grind their teeth with envy. Most infuriating of all was the impression she gave that she hadn’t really tried. Jamie sighed. Something would have to be done with it all. It was almost worthy of a museum.

She searched through the wardrobe, trying on and discarding, wanting to find the perfect fit. She was taller than her mother, and her breasts were slightly larger, but she had inherited her tiny waist and her slim, boyish hips. Eventually she settled on a simple
sleeveless shift dress made of Shanghai silk. The material was sensational – deep, hot pink shot with threads of gold. It fitted her perfectly; any tighter and it would have been tarty, but instead its simplicity made it classy. On Louisa, Jamie remembered, it had come to just below the knee, but on Jamie it was just above, which made it look more modern. She backcombed her hair to give it height around her face, then tied the rest in a loose plait which she wore over one shoulder. On her feet she wore a pair of wedge-heeled espadrilles with canvas ribbons that tied round her ankles like ballet shoes.

Looking at herself in the mirror for approval, she wondered if she’d done the right thing. Was it tasteless to wear a dress belonging to her mother? She soon reassured herself. People wore jewellery belonging to the deceased, hung their pictures on the wall, utilized their furniture. Why not wear their clothes?

On impulse, she finished off with a squirt of the perfume bottle that was still sitting on the dressing table. For a moment her mother was there in the room with her. When Jamie was a little girl, she would always go into Louisa’s dressing room just before a party, just before she went down to greet her guests. They had a little ritual: Louisa would do a twirl for Jamie’s benefit, and Jamie would survey the final effect before giving a nod of approval. Louisa would finish by spraying a cloud of perfume into the air, then walking into it. Then she would squirt a tiny cloud for Jamie, who would go to bed smelling of Schiaparelli’s
Shocking, and listening to the sounds of merriment downstairs.

Now, smelling it again, she was surprised she didn’t feel sad. Instead, she felt quite ready to go downstairs, greet her guests and host the party of a lifetime.

By half-six when Christopher got home, he very nearly bottled out of the party altogether. All he wanted was a light supper and, frankly, bed. To make matters worse, Zoe phoned to talk to the boys. She fizzed and bubbled down the telephone, sounding just like the old Zoe, the girl he’d married. Not the harbinger of doom he came home to every evening. He felt thoroughly depressed. What was the point? Life was one long juggling act – despite his hard work and best intentions today he’d ended up making no one happy. And his wife was only herself when she was two hundred miles away in the bosom of someone else’s family, not her own.

He snapped himself out of it. He couldn’t not go to the party. Jamie was his best mate, for heaven’s sake. And he might feel better when he got there. It was a given, that the less you looked forward to something the more you enjoyed it, and vice versa. By that token, tonight should be a bloody riot, he thought, as he pulled on a fresh pair of jeans and a navy-blue shirt.

He went to kiss the boys goodnight. They were roaring with laughter in front of some Saturday evening game show and weren’t in the least perturbed by his departure. Rosemary was in the kitchen washing
up by hand. Even though they’d brought the dishwasher up from Elmdon Road and plumbed it in, she still insisted on doing things the hard way.